le_russe_satan

Title: "A Guide to Surviving in Restaurant Business" 1/?
Rating: erm, PG-13 (some swear words)
Pairing: Sharpe/Wellington pre-slash
Genre: AU!! XD Really AU!
A/N: I am crazy. Yes, I am. XD

“Number two, Oporto Street, right... Must be it,” says Richard to himself, stuffing the paper into the pocket of his somewhat shabby coat. He felt a little self-conscious about wearing it to the interview, but at least it's covering his shirt, which definitely saw better days. But that's what happens when you spend several years working in a tiny Indian restaurant, and then get fired with no severance pay because the bastard of a manager succeeded to pin a case of severe food poisoning on you. And then you find out that your savings account has been cleaned out by some god-damn hacker and there's no refund in the foreseeable future. So Richard knows it's not his fault he can't afford newer and better clothes, but he can't help feeling apprehensive standing in front of a building, which is clearly a former mansion built in a neoclassical style (at least he thinks that's what it's called) and houses what is rumoured to be the next Big Thing on the restaurant scene.

The problem is there's no sign whatsoever and Richard can't even look through the windows because they've all been covered from the other side.
“Oh, for fuck's sake!” He breathes out and pushes the door open. At first he's only aware of paint smell, then, as his eyes adjust to bright electric lights, he takes it all in and apprehension goes away, replaced by depression: who in their sane mind would hire him here? They haven't finished decorating yet – there's no furniture, the floor is covered with cardboard to protect it from paint, which is being applied to the walls by at least four people; a corner of a huge mirror peeks out from under the sheet that's draped over it, - and the price of its frame alone probably constitutes half of his annual income, - and to the right, at the end of this huge hall, - yep, those are crystal chandeliers, - is the longest bar stand he ever saw. Yes. No way in hell he's getting hired here.

Suddenly he realises that someone is trying to attract his attention, and not for the first time judging by the insistence in the “Excuse me, sir”.
"Sorry, yes?" The man addressing him is rather handsome with a curiously emotionless face.
"May I enquire what brings you here?" Emotionless or not the man can't quite supress the incredulity and distaste as he looks him over: it's barely there but it's there nonetheless.
"I.. uh.. I," Richard takes out the hopelessly crumpled paper, - I've come about the job. You've advertised for a barman.
"Ah, yes. I am afraid you will have to wait for a little while: all new applicants are interviewed by the head chef and he is busy just now. Please, follow me."

Richard does, studying the man's erect posture as they cross the hall, pass through double doors and ascend the magnificent staircase to the first floor. If Richard ever thought about what aristocrats looked or behaved like then this man would fit the stereotype to perfection.
"My name is Stewart, I am the manager here," they are in a hallway now and Richard gets dizzy when he tries to look at the ceiling.
"Nice place you've got here."
"Thank you," replies Stewart and Sharpe hears “Duh”, though of course aristocrats don't speak like that.

After what seems like an interminable journey, they arrive into an office. It has a marble fireplace, furniture that looks and most likely is antique, and a huge old map of Iberian Peninsula on the wall.
"Please, take a seat."
Stewart indicates one of the leather armchairs that face a very severe looking writing desk. Richard is not sure how it's possible but the desk simply radiates severity. The armchair is one of those you want to write odes about and Richard barely suppreses the desire to find something to cover it with before he sits on it.
"Do you have your references with you?" Stewart remains standing
"Ah, yes, yes, here...," thankfully, Richard got the bastard manager of his to give him a reference that was not negative. Still, it is 'lukewarm' at best.

He studies Stewart's face as the man reads it, but his face shows nothing. Richard feels slightly encouraged though when Stewart picks up the phone and asks someone called Somerset where He is. Richard is convinced that he heard the capital letter and that this He is none other than the head chef that is supposed to interview him.
"I am very sorry, Mr. Sharpe," starts Stewart and Richard blushes realising that he did not introduce himself, "it seems that we are going to have to go back. Mr. Wellesley will see you now, but he cannot leave the kitchen."

Kitchen sounds good, thinks Richard: it will probably be much less intimidating than this office. He is wrong. When they enter, the atmosphere is heavy as if someone just got chewed out, which is probably true, because the courier holding a box marked “Fragile” looks like he is about to cry. There are two men fiddling with a big oven in the corner and one can feel the tension rolling off in waves from them. There is also a tall young man with a long suffering air about him, with a file under one arm and a PDA in hand. He glances curiously at Richard and then makes a face at Stewart, who clears his throat.

"Mr. Wellesley, this is the new applicant."

Mr. Wellesley looks nothing like a head chef. In fact just like Stewart, - and Somerset, - he looks like an aristocrat. He is tall, broad-shouldered and his good looks are not at all spoiled by his beak of a nose. He also has piercing blue eyes. Richard swallows nervously, opens his mouth and then it all goes to hell. In slow motion. He manages to notice that the two men who were fiddling with the stove slipped out while they were waiting for Wellesley to turn their attention to him. He also manages to think “This is gonna hurt” as he dives forward, knocking Wellesley to the ground and shielding him with his body. Richard could've gone for Somerset, Stewart or even the courier, but he didn't. He went straight for Wellesley and he didn't even have to make a conscious decision about it.

The noise he sort of expected. He did not expect to feel something flying over his head. Neither did he expect things to start falling on him. Richard wasn't sure what it was but it felt like hail. God damn painful hail. Tennis ball sized.

And suddenly it is all over, leaving nothing but a ringing in his ears and something wet and warm on his cheek. Richard rolles off Wellesley and sits up. Well, that, and a clear need for redecoration. He looks around, taking stock of the situation. It seems that the explosion was not that strong after all: most of the damage was done to the stove, the lamps and the box labelled “Fragile”. The courier, - more shocked than hurt, - is looking between the said box, and Wellesley, clearly more concerned about the chef's reaction, - and why is the box leaking for fuck's sake, - than the explosion itself. Somerset and Stewart are fine as well, excepting some scratches, and Somerset is already busy calling the emergency sevices. The kitchen starts to fill up with people, but Richard is only distantly aware of them, all their voices raised in concern nothing but a white noise to him.

"You might need stitches," Wellesley touches his cheek surprisingly softly and his fingers come away stained with Richard's blood. And then they are separated, people tugging at him, checking his pupils, gasping over his cut and helping him to his feet. He is kind of annoyed Wellesley did not thank him. He is also annoyed he does not get to see him again.

They put him into an ambulance and he thinks that Stewart looks at him with something approaching approval, but decides it must be the side effect of the explosion. When he is finally home, he falls asleep having practically convinced himself that the whole day must have been a side effect of him taking drugs by accident and in fact nothing like that happened. But then he wakes up to two missed calls on his mobile and a voicemail left by Stewart informing him that he's got the job. Richard falls back asleep and dreams about piercing blue eyes.

Fic

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